Текст книги "Ten Things Sloane Hates About Tru"

Автор книги: Tera Lynn Childs

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Chapter Ten

The fighting was worse than usual. Tru didn’t know what his mother had done to upset the beast this time, but he heard the dishes break all the way upstairs in his room.

Tru went into the kind of zone that allowed him to still function while it was happening. For years, he had sat huddled at the end of the hall and listened. He had only tried once to intervene, had stepped between his mother and the blow she was about to receive.

For his efforts, he had ended up with a broken clavicle and a lecture from his mother about not getting involved.

That was a lesson he didn’t need to learn more than once.

Ever since, he had locked himself away in his room, tuning it out as much as possible and focusing on work until the fight turned into the making up.

The cycle was always the same. The raging fight. The tearful groveling. The making up behind locked doors.

To make it through without losing his mind and without giving in to the urge to race downstairs and protect the woman who would never return the favor, he focused on his work. Opened his editing software and dug in on his short film. The layers of sound and image and special effect, the intricacies of timing and color and cuts from one angle to another, were hypnotic.

He should have been working with headphones on—it was better for the sound editing—but then he wouldn’t know when it was over downstairs. While he wasn’t consciously listening to the fight, his subconscious was keeping tabs.

He let himself get lost in the video, focusing on the tiniest of details, over and over.

Several times he found his mind drifting to Sloane. Since the revelation that she’d been behind the Midtown Tower art installation, he’d been thinking about her in a new light. It hadn’t been a lie when he said he had new respect for her. It’s like he opened a door and found a whole new Sloane on the other side. A Sloane who not only stood up for herself and spoke her mind, but one who was willing to risk far more than he ever had.

He couldn’t even stand up to his father, let alone the NYPD.

Thinking about Sloane and his father in the same sentence made his stomach lurch. Then again, how could he even think of her while the one-sided battle between his parents raged downstairs?

If he cared for her so much as a little bit, he had to keep her as far from the line of fire as he could. Because if Tru knew one thing for sure, it was that his father had the ability to extinguish even the brightest star. And Tru couldn’t live with himself if he let that happen to Sloane.

He had no idea how much time had passed when his subconscious noted the telltale click of the lock on his parents’ bedroom door.

The switch in his brain flipped, and he waited only as long as it took to save his work before venturing into the hall, his footfalls silent as he padded downstairs, around the kitchen, and into his father’s den. Across the expensive rug to the locked cabinet against the far wall.

His parents would be occupied for hours.

Feeling along the top edge of the cabinet, he located the key that his father apparently thought was well enough hidden to keep Tru out of the liquor. He thought wrong.

The vast variety of his father’s collection spread out before him, Tru had to decide what to take and how much. It was a well-stocked bar—as if David Dorsey would settle for anything less—despite the fact that the man of the house only drank single malt scotch. The rest were for show and for guests.

Tru rubbed his hands together as he scanned the selection. It felt like a vodka night. There was orange juice in the refrigerator. Between the two, he could turn this night around in a hurry.

There were half a dozen bottles of vodka. What were the odds his father would notice one was missing?

Those were odds he was willing to play.

Tru grabbed an unopened bottle, relocked the cabinet, and placed the key back in the not-so-secret hiding place.

The first time he’d escaped into a bottle had been after the first time his father’s fists drew blood. A way to dull the pain, to silence his mind and the unanswerable questions.

Since that night, escaping into the bottle had become a habit, a ritual. When the gloves came off, the drink came out.

Like tonight.

After a quick stop in the kitchen to pick up a glass and the other half of a screwdriver recipe, he slipped out the back door and headed for the gazebo in the far corner of the yard.

It had a perfect view of the upstairs bedroom window next door. And the roof below it.

There was a gentle breeze, and the temperature outside was almost perfect. The faint scent of cedar and damp filled the air. Stars filled the sky. And the makings of a memory-eraser filled his cup.

Sloane wouldn’t approve. He could picture her freckled nose wrinkling up at the thought. But the part of his brain that worried about approval—hers, his father’s, anyone’s—had gone on autopilot. He couldn’t care anymore.

The night was definitely taking a turn upward. The only thing that would make it even better? Spending it with Sloane.

Chapter Eleven

I fall into bed, exhausted, at one in the morning. Mom tried to get me to come downstairs for dinner, but I ate a granola bar I had stashed in my desk drawer and the half sleeve of Oreos.

I’m sleeping so hard that when I first hear the sound I incorporate it into my dream. I’m fighting with Tash on top of a skyscraper when pigeons start tapping on the concrete floor around us. Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, Sloane.

What?

I bolt up in bed.

Tap, tap. “Sloane.”

I fling back the covers and hurry to the window. When I pull up the blinds I see Tru, face pressed against the glass as he taps one finger against my window.

My heart double-thuds.

“What the hell?” I mutter.

He is the last thing I expected to see out my window, but I can’t help the little thrill that wonders what he’s doing here. A shiver of anticipation tickles down my spine.

I try to pull open the window, but with his weight pressing against it, it won’t budge. No amount of grunting or pushing makes it move. I’m pushing so hard I’m afraid I’m going to break the entire window frame. Nothing.

“Get back,” I whisper-shout. “Tru, move.”

“Don’t make me go,” he moans.

My heart clenches at the pain in his voice.

“Shhhh!” I make a back away gesture, but his eyes are closed. I mutter to myself, “You have got to be kidding me.”

If I leave him out there, one of two things will happen. Either he will make so much noise that Mom will come investigate, in which case I will never be allowed to leave my room again. Or he will eventually fall off the roof, in which case I will have to explain—to my mom, to his mom, to the police—why my neighbor is dead in my backyard.

Getting him inside is the only option. I have to risk waking up Mom to make that happen. Mom’s wrath is preferable to a manslaughter rap—but just barely.

With my palm flat, I smack against the glass right next to his face.

He jerks up, and before he can complain, I yank the window open and slap my hand over his mouth. His skin is cool in the night air, but his lips are burning hot.

The shaggy tips of his hair tickle at my wrist.

“Keep quiet,” I whisper. “My mom will kill us both and ask questions later if she finds you here.”

He seems to understand, because he doesn’t speak when I pull my hand away. His eyes drift closed, and he starts to fall in through the window.

I catch his shoulders, barely able to hold him up. “Come on, dude, help me out.”

He mumbles something unintelligible.

The smell of alcohol surrounds him like a cloud.

Great. I’m on my own.

Somehow, through a masterful feat of pulling and prodding, I get him inside and sitting on the edge of my bed. Shaking my head, I turn to close the window and the blinds.

“What do I do when I’m drunk?” I mock to myself. “Oh, climb onto roofs and wake up sleeping neighbors.”

I need to sober him up if I want to get him home before Mom comes asking questions. Can I sneak downstairs and make him a cup of coffee—or ten—without waking her up? I have to try.

But when I turn to tell him I’ll be back in a minute, he’s not where I left him. Or, more accurately, he’s not how I left him. Instead of sitting on the edge of my bed, he’s lying in the center of it. On his side, face buried in my pillow, boots tangled in my comforter.

I can’t even be mad. He looks so peaceful. Like, for once, he isn’t putting on the charming guy facade. He isn’t playing the role of Tru Dorsey. He just…is.

I have the overwhelming urge to cuddle in next to him, to smooth back his hair and tell him everything will be okay. But what do I know? I heard the way his dad was raging at his mom. Maybe it won’t be okay.

Maybe he needs a good night’s sleep more than anything.

Looks like I’m sleeping on the floor.

I take a moment to remove his boots—because, seriously, gross—and snake a pillow from the other side of the bed. As I do, I indulge the impulse to smooth a lock of dark hair behind his ear.

He smiles in his sleep.

My entire body tingles.

This situation is way more dangerous than I originally thought. Having these feelings for Tru is not an option. For so many reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I’m not going to be in Austin for any longer than I have to be. I am not about to start forming any attachments that will make leaving hard.

Add to that my disastrous near-miss romance with Brice—what an awesome track record I have—and my own parents’ less-than-affectionate marriage, and I am a relationship train wreck waiting to happen.

If I want to save Tru—and myself—from heartache down the line, I won’t ever let this connection between us get anything close to serious.

Distance. I need distance.

I cross to my door, making sure the lock is engaged before settling down on the floor in front of it. If Mom is concerned about the idea of my just getting a ride to and from school with Tru, imagine if she found him sleeping in my bed.

Even the thought of being grounded for all eternity can’t keep the smile off my face as I drift back to sleep.

The first thing I am aware of in the morning is the stabbing pain in my neck. Seriously, it’s like someone shoved a knife into the spot where my neck meets my right shoulder. As I twist my head from side to side, I slowly come to consciousness…and slowly remember why I am sleeping on the floor.

I sit up, push a clump of hair out of my eyes, and look at the bed. Tru is sitting on the edge with his head in his hands.

“You look great,” I say.

He shakes his head, doesn’t look up.

I push to my feet. “Clearly you feel as great as you look.”

After tossing my blanket and pillow onto the end of the bed, I sit down next to him. I hand him the bottle of water I always keep on my nightstand.

“Here.” I push it into his hand. “You need to hydrate.”

He doesn’t say a word, but he unscrews the cap and throws back a long swig.

While I don’t personally have a lot of experience with overdoing it with the hooch, Tash thinks a party isn’t a party until she’s drowned her inhibitions. I’ve spent far too many mornings at her house, holding back her hair.

At least Tru doesn’t look green. Hopefully that means I’ll be spared witnessing the worst parts of a hangover.

The bed shifts as he leans to the side and digs a hand into his pocket. He pulls out a small tin of mints, flips open the lip, and holds it out to me. I take one. Then watch as he tosses back half a dozen.

I’m amazed that his eyes aren’t watering.

“How did I get here?” he finally asks.

I point at the window. “Your usual way.”

He squints at the barest trace of sunlight that seeps through my blinds.

His mouth kicks up in a wincing smile. “Pretty impressive.”

“Are you kidding?” I shove at his shoulder. “You could have broken your neck.”

“I’m like a cat,” he says. “Always land on my feet.”

“Well, don’t go testing the nine lives theory on my roof.”

“Would you cry for me?” he teases.

Is he serious?

“I’ve only known you a week,” I say, “and I’ve already seen you wasted twice. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Yeah,” he replies with a surfer dude drawl. “Next time I get to see you wasted.”

“What is your problem?” I demand. “It’s not normal to get drunk twice in the first week of school.”

He shrugs. “Maybe not in New York.”

“Are you never serious?” I run a hand through my hair. “Do you know how bad things could go if you got caught? Your entire future could be up in smoke.”

A year ago, I would have been the one on the other side of this conversation. Hell, a few months ago, I was ready to throw away everything for the thrill of a dangerous act of art.

Now that I’ve seen what there is to lose—my home, my friends, my happy family—I have a different perspective. Now I can see what he’s throwing away.

“Life has consequences,” I say, wincing as I repeat words Mom has said to me more than a few times.

Tru just smiles. He’s trying to look unconcerned, like I’m overreacting to the situation, but there is something in his eyes that tells me real emotions are lurking beneath the surface. Real emotions that he doesn’t want anyone looking at too closely.

Whatever. If he’s going to keep everything locked away, then I’m going to stop even trying to figure him out.

“Next time,” I say as I push to my feet, “knock on someone else’s window.”

I start to walk away, but before I can move, his hand wraps around my wrist.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice rough and raspy.

When I look back down at him, the mask is gone, and his eyes are bleak with pain. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I lower myself back onto the bed next to him.

This is the real Tru.

“My dad,” he begins, then stops and lowers his head.

I slip my hand from his grip and instead lace our fingers together. The heat of our joined palms is like an inferno.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to—”

“He and my mom fight.” He huffs out a sharp breath. “A lot.”

“All parents do,” I say, trying to make him feel better.

He lifts his gaze, and there is a coldness in his eyes that chills me to the core. “He and I fight. A lot.”

There is something…dark and empty about what he’s saying. There is pain, yes, that’s obvious. But there’s also…rage, maybe? Grief? Loss? No, not loss. Lost. It’s like he’s lost.

Whatever his father did to cause this much pain in someone as joyful and light as Tru, someone should do right back to him. No one should ever be made to feel this way.

Almost without thinking, I find myself leaning forward, closing the distance between us. I’m not sure if I think it will erase that emptiness in his eyes, but I have to try.

His gaze drops to my mouth.

I can’t tear mine away from the desperate, hungry look in his eyes.

Just one kiss, I tell myself. What could it hurt?

But before I can answer the question, there’s a knock at my door.

I jump up and away like my bed is on fire. Only our hands are still interlaced, so I don’t get very far.

“Sloane, honey,” Mom says. She tries the door handle, but thankfully it just rattles. “Why is your door locked?”

Eyes wide, I give Tru a pleading look. He lets me pull him to his feet and I drag him across the room, toward my closet. I tell her, “Because you keep coming in without permission.”

“Let me in,” she insists. “This is serious.”

I shove Tru into my closet. There are no clothes for him to hide behind—nothing to hang if nothing is unpacked. I hold my finger to my lips, praying that he’ll do a better job than he did on the roof last night, as I swing the door mostly closed.

Then I unlock and open my room door the minimum amount necessary for her to see my face and nothing beyond. Thankfully the closet is behind the door.

“What?” I demand, affecting as much righteous annoyance as I can.

Mom makes a face. “Good morning to you, too.”

I sigh. “You said it was important.”

She looks like she doesn’t want to let my attitude go, but then decides it’s not worth the argument. “Tru is missing.”

My breath catches in my throat, but I quickly force it to resume a normal pattern. “What do you mean missing?”

“Miko says his bed hasn’t been slept in,” Mom says, a pained look in her eyes. “He even left his phone and his ID.”

I can tell from her expression and her tone that she’s feeling so very sorry for her poor friend who has to deal with such a troublesome son. Just like she feels sorry for herself for having to deal with me.

But she’s only seeing—and hearing—one side of the story. The poor, put-upon parents who can’t seem to control their troublemaking son.

Mom didn’t see the broken look in Tru’s eyes just a few minutes ago when he was telling me about the fights with his dad. She didn’t hear the start of the one last night, the way his dad was tearing into his mom.

The whole one-sided, Tru-against-the-world argument is bullshit. His dad is at least an equal participant. Maybe more.

“Yeah, well,” I say, forcing my eyes not to check out the closed closet door just a few feet away, “what do you want me to do about it?”

“Miko thinks you two are becoming friends,” she says, and the disapproval in her tone is obvious. “I told her I would ask if you knew anything.”

I’m walking a fine line here. Between Tru hiding in my closet and Mom standing in front of me. Say something to defend Tru, and I wind up pissing Mom off and giving Tru’s big ego a steroid shot. Although he might actually need that boost right now. Say something to satisfy Mom, and the hungover eavesdropper in the closet will hear every word, and Mom will keep thinking he’s something that he’s not. In the end, I decide to err on the side of getting back to New York, to reassure Mom that the supposed future delinquent and I are nothing anywhere near friends.

Which is, of course, mostly true.

“Yeah, well,” I say, “I think he’s an ass.”

“Sloane Whitaker!” Mom gasps, as if she’s never heard me swear.

As if that’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.

“We’re not friends, Mom. He wouldn’t tell me anything.”

Both absolutely true. We’re not really friends. I don’t know what we are, especially after what almost happened on my bed before Mom showed up, but I’m not sure there’s a word for it in the English language.

There’s no one word—or ten thousand words—that can describe how I’m drawn to him, despite all the reasons I should want to stay away. How he makes me want to sink into him, to absorb his smiles and let some of his who-gives-a-crap attitude rub off on me. To make sure he never again feels the kind of pain I saw in his eyes this morning.

The pull between us is indescribable.

“Okay,” she says, seemingly satisfied for the moment. “If you hear anything…”

“I’ll let you or Mrs. Dorsey know.”

When she’s gone and my lock is back in place, I head straight for the closet. “You need to go,” I order as I yank open the door.

And find myself looking at an empty closet.

I spin around. My blinds are up, my window open.

That boy is stealthy like a freaking cat.

The first ArtSquad practice is surprisingly fun. I never thought about turning art into a competition, but tackling everything from basic design terms to art history to on-the-spot art challenges in a kind of Pictionary meets Academic Decathlon is actually a blast. I thrive on pressure, so the added motivation of time limits really brings out my competitive nature. I could get used to this.

Aimeigh runs a tight ship, and by the time our thirty-minute practice is over, she has given each of the twelve of us a homework assignment and two specialties to focus on.

Mine are typography and color theory, which I am totally cool with. Core principals of graphic design.

After everyone else heads to first period, Tru sticks around to help us clean up.

“Did you hear about Jaq?” Aimeigh asks as she gathers up her team materials.

Tru goes looking for a marker that went rolling across Mrs. K’s classroom after Aimeigh threw it at one of the guys for giving a smart-ass answer.

“Who’s Jaq?” I ask.

“She sits next to me,” Aimeigh answers, nodding to the table she sits at when AGD is in session.

I picture the girl with a messy bob died deep red with blond streaks. I think she’s in my modern lit class too. She always wears cute floral dresses with knee-high boots.

“What about her?”

“Expelled,” Aimeigh whispers, as if just saying the word is inviting the same punishment.

“For what?” Tru asks.

“Cheating,” Aimeigh says. “She plagiarized a paper or something.”

“That’s crazy,” I say.

“Who cheats in the first two weeks of school?” Tru asks. “You gotta save that shit for the end of the quarter at least.”

I punch him in the arm.

Despite all the talk about rule breaking and authority flaunting, I’m starting to suspect that—aside from the drinking—his serial screw-up persona is totally fake. Nothing more than a show he puts on for his parents and anyone he wants to impress. The bad boy image might be nothing more than a facade.

“So just like that?” I ask. “She’s out?”

“Zero tolerance,” Aimeigh says.

Tru hands her the marker. “I’ll see you lovelies later. I gots to get to film and video.”

“Good morning, girls,” Mrs. K says as she sweeps into the AGD room. “You’re here early. I didn’t miss an appointment, did I?”

“ArtSquad practice,” Aimeigh says.

“Of course.” Mrs. K smiles. “Have a good team this year?”

“The best.”

As Mrs. K goes about her prep for class, I put away my ArtSquad homework assignments.

“You’re in my seat,” a stiff voice says.

Aimeigh looks up at Jenna. “You don’t own it.”

“I do when the bell rings,” Jenna retorts.

“Then when the bell rings,” Aimeigh says, a huge fake smile in place, “I’ll move.”

“Now girls,” Mrs. K says. “Play nice.”

Aimeigh rolls her eyes, but she shoves the rest of her materials into her backpack and heads for her own desk. “See you after.”

I head for the supply bar at the back of the room. When I’ve picked out a set of oil pastels and a sheet of newsprint, I head back to my seat.

Jenna has her sketchbook in front of her and her pencils lined up neatly next to it. She has them sorted in order of hardness.

There is definitely something odd about her.

I pull out my tablet, figuring I can check the traffic data for the latest Graphic Grrl strip that I posted late Sunday night. There’s always a huge spike in visits on Monday and Tuesday morning. This week, after the high-profile Artzfeed article, I’m prepared for a bigger-than-usual boost. Tilting the screen slightly away from Jenna, I log in to my site and scan for the numbers.

I am not prepared for the huge figure I see on my analytics dashboard.

Tash is always pushing me to add advertising to the site. Her uncle’s in marketing, which makes her a self-appointed expert, but she thinks I could make a lot of coin that way. For now, though, I’m just doing it for fun. I think it would change things if I decided to commercialize my art.

Still, these numbers are astounding.

“You should watch out,” Jenna says, so softly I almost don’t hear her.

“What?”

She keeps her head lowered, but twists to the side. “You should be careful.”

“Of what?” I ask.

“Of Aimeigh,” she says. “She isn’t very nice.”

I snort out a half laugh. “Okay, thanks.”

I can get why she feels that way. I’ve seen Aimeigh be kind of harsh to Jenna a couple of times. Of course she thinks Aimeigh’s mean.

But I definitely don’t need anyone to look out for me. I’m more than capable of looking out for myself.

On the way to the parking lot after school, my phone dings with a text message. I smile when I see Tash’s name on my screen.

Tash: SODA started 2day. Not same w/o u!

Me: Wish I wuz there

Tash: New painting teach is HAWT!

Me: Pic?

Tash: He took my phone

Tash: Will sneak 2moro

Me: Pls do

Tash: Any reprieve from shemonster?

Me: Not yet

Me: Hopefully soon

Tash: Tell me if I need 2 put out hit

Me: Haha

Tash: Or send chocolates

Me: Def send chocolates

Me: From Amuse Bouche

Tash: Done deal

Tash: Xoxo

Me: *mwuah*

I smile and sigh as I slip my phone back into my pocket.

I picture her walking up the dark gray steps at SODA along with the horde of other students rushing in late for the first day. Walking the halls, flirting with any halfway cute guy she sees—teachers included—and daring any girl to cross her path. Sneaking out onto the roof to eat lunch in our spot.

I feel like I’m missing out on what is supposed to be the best year of my life.

I have to keep that in mind. I have to remember that getting back to New York is my number one goal, every second of every day. No matter how fun ArtSquad may be or whether I’m making new friends—new whatever-Tru-is—or feeling challenged by exciting classes, it all pales in comparison to what I would be doing at SODA.

New York. My one and only mission.